Directions
by roseywine
Summary: Struggling with his feelings for Isobel, Dr Clarkson is torn between pleasing the Dowager Countess and listening to his morals.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: As usual, characters belong to the great Julian Fellowes. **

The Dowager Countess is doing him a favour by dragging him into this, he supposes.

Still, it's hard to be grateful when he's sitting at her table listening to all the chat about Lord Merton, his potential interest in Isobel and _her potential interest in him_. It's something she's always quick to deny, but the thought of it makes him uneasy. He doesn't think she's lying – he knows her well enough, or at least he hopes so - but he also knows things can change.

And things have been changing very quickly. Isobel has been spending almost every day at the hospital with the sudden need to keep her hands busy. He enjoys her company, particularly during the quieter moments, but he is starting to feel things he hasn't felt since that day at the fayre. He puts it down to feeling protective over her – trying to keep her in this world and not Merton's. But that still doesn't explain his quickening heartbeat whenever she walks in the room. It doesn't explain why he misses her as soon as she leaves.

* * *

><p>Today she is working with an almost demonic efficiency, barely looking up from the notes she's been scribbling all morning. He made her a cup of tea about an hour ago, but it's still sitting on his desk, untouched.<p>

"Come and have a break," he says gently, adjusting the curtains to let in more light.

She looks up from the piles of paper, disorientated.

"Are you ok?" he asks, pulling his chair round to sit near her. They have a good working setup these days. She has her own half of his desk, but it still remains respectfully _his_. By the end of the day, there is never any trace of her other than the occasional smudge of ink.

"Yes," she says, straightening the papers to make room for him. "Oh, a cup of tea? Thank you."

"I'll make you another," he says with a grimace, moving it out of her reach. "You seem a bit… distant."

"Do I? I've had a lot on my mind recently. I don't mean to be rude."

There seems to be a sadness in her expression, and he is tempted for half a second to put a reassuring hand on her arm. Perhaps that is what she is expecting. Instead he busies his hands with the teacup.

"And are you ok?" she asks after a moment. " Not too tired with this sudden abundance of tea parties? Being summoned by Lady Grantham at every opportunity?"

Her air is casual, yet her voice is too light, her wording a little too deliberate.

"It is unusual, I must say. I seem to be top of the list all of a sudden. I haven't a clue why."

"I could hazard a guess. Lady Grantham is not one for subtlety," she says with a bitter laugh that he doesn't like to hear on her.

He smiles politely, adjusting the collar of his white coat.

"I think it's becoming quite the spectacle," she adds.

"Well, I'll agree with you there."

"Why do you come then?" she asks, sitting up straight in her chair. Wearily, he recognises it as her favourite interrogation position from many a dinner party up at the Abbey. "Do you really enjoy them?

"I could quite easily ask you the same. You know, if you don't want me to come to these things, I can always say no?"

"Don't be silly," she says with a frown. "You know that's not what I want."

He sighs, blowing the air upwards so it cools his forehead. She is one of those moods that will quickly wear them both down.

"I'll get you that tea," he says, a note of exhaustion in his voice that he doesn't try to hide from her. "And when you decide what you _do_ want, just let me know."

He doesn't notice the ambiguity of the statement until he is almost through the door. Isobel's eyes are wide and he can see that she has read something else in his words by the colour in her cheeks.

Pretty china teacup in hand, he groans inwardly as the first flushes of embarrassment settle in his stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

On nights like these, his greatest companion is a large glass of whisky. Tired of the week and everyone and everything in it, he spares himself a few hours alone with nothing but the warm, welcoming liquid to distract him. It must be almost midnight, but he isn't done yet.

He is yet to consume sufficient alcohol to silence the thoughts he's been having lately and the feelings that go along with them. _Stifle_ them, certainly. But he has never achieved silence.

He knows he will fall asleep right there in his chair with an empty glass in his hand, but he doesn't fight it. Anything is better than lying awake in an empty bed with the loud, sober thoughts that plague him during the rest of the week. It's the first time he has gone this far, but as the drunken dreams begin to set in, he feels ashamed as the world falls away and he is left at the mercy of his mind.

...

It's early Saturday morning, but that doesn't seem to matter to whoever is knocking at his door with all the grace of a wild bull. The thumping is incessant – each heavy-handed knock reverberating painfully through his head.

He opens the door, squinting in the sunlight, every nerve in his body pleading with him to go and lie back down.

"Good morning, Dr Clarkson," says the young man in a voice that is at least twice as loud as necessary. He is one of the servants from the Dower House – perhaps a gardener judging by the state of his trousers. "I have a note from Lady Grantham. She wants to see you as soon as possible."

He takes the note, which has had a difficult journey in the man's pocket and tries to read the writing between the creases and dirty finger marks. It's unusual that she would allow a note to arrive in this state, but then again, she will probably never know.

"Thank you. Will you tell her I'll be there later this afternoon?"

"That's no good, Doctor. She's visiting the Abbey tonight – some kind of anniversary, I think."

He sighs, calculating how long it will take to pull himself together.

"This afternoon is the earliest I can do," he says.

"Are you busy today? You don't look well to me," says the young man, peering into his face.

"I'm not well," he says wearily.

"You should get some of that medicine you keep up at the hospital. It's amazing the things you can cure nowadays."

He raises an eyebrow, wondering which part of him he would cure first.

"Fine, I'll be there at eleven o'clock," he says, closing the door firmly between himself and the young man. Leaning back against the dark wood, he whispers, "and tell her to just telephone next time."

...

He is barely out of the house, clothes and hat flung on haphazardly, when he hears his name from further down the street. The voice belongs to Isobel, although for once he isn't pleased to see her. He has no idea how the land lies between them and his hangover is raging worse than ever – no amount of cold water has made a difference to his pounding head and aching limbs.

"You look terrible," she says, catching up with him. "I hope it's not contagious."

He notices she doesn't move away from him, maintaining a distance that allows their arms to occasionally brush.

"Probably not," he replies with a fluey quality in his voice that is no doubt the combination of a dry mouth and an uncomfortable sleep. "Otherwise I'll be blamed for the untimely death of Lady Grantham."

"Has she sent for you again?" asks Isobel.

He nods, the sudden movement causing him to wince.

"I'll walk as far as town with you, then I'm afraid you're on your own," she says with a smirk at his self-inflicted suffering. "I wonder what tricks she has up her sleeve this time."

"I couldn't tell you," he says. "I just wish she'd given me more notice."

They walk on a little way, the cool breeze working its magic on his throbbing head and limbs. He starts to notice how lovely a day it is as the fog lifts slowly from his brain, and he is about to tell her so when she interjects.

"So, what was it? Whisky or brandy?"

"How do you know?" he asks, suddenly self-conscious.

"I know how you look after a good dinner party," she says with a giggle. "Your hair for a start."

She reaches up, brushing back the strands that have fallen across his forehead, tucking them under his hat. He almost freezes at the unexpected contact, her fingers so warm on his skin. After a few more strokes of adjustment, she steps back to admire her work.

"That's better," she says before hesitating for a moment. "Should I take it you were on your own all night?"

He is ashamed to admit it to her, but there is something about her tone of voice that suggests she would prefer it that way. When he nods, he detects a flicker of relief on her face.

"That's a shame," she says. "I would have loved a whisky too many."

"I'll invite you next time," he says, trying to keep his voice light. He is still unnerved by her tender gesture. "Although I don't intend to have a repeat performance anytime soon."

"That's probably for the best," she says with a grin. They have reached his turn-off, both stopping for a moment on the corner. "But I do mean it. There is no point both of us sitting at home alone every evening."

"I'd like that," he says, his heart already aching at the thought of an entire evening with her. He has imagined such a thing many a time, yet she is the one suggesting it. "You don't need an invitation."

Suddenly, they are both shy at the prospect of saying goodbye. He is never sure whether to touch her or not – a friendly hand on her arm or a kiss on the cheek. He usually decides against it, but today has not been usual.

"I'll see you soon," he says, extending his hand to her arm as he starts to turn in his own direction. He is surprised at how natural it feels. "Wish me luck."

The smile on her face as she turns away is enough to keep the remnants of his hangover at bay for the rest of the short walk to the Dower House.


	3. Chapter 3

He knows from the start the conversation will be a difficult one. Lady Grantham is in her finest lip-pursing, death-staring mood, and he knows that no matter what he has to say, he will somehow be coerced into doing whatever she has planned. Her tone tells him any objections will be futile, probably bordering on dangerous.

"Are you sure Lord Merton will want me at his dinner party? I don't see how my presence is relevant." He tries to match her tone of authority but only achieves polite suggestion.

"I'm sure he won't mind. Mrs Crawley will be glad of your company, and I would be grateful for your help in the matter. After all, we share a common aim."

"What common aim would that be? Mrs Crawley's happiness? Because that is what I want, and I'm not sure you're on the same level." He looks down, not quite daring to meet her eye. The alcohol has made him bold, but he has no desire to throw the gauntlet down.

"It may surprise you, but her happiness is exactly what I had in mind. If you think that allowing her to gallivant off with Lord Merton will make her happy, then you don't know Mrs Crawley."

His head is still swimming in drink, the room feeling uncomfortably warm. He pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger in a bid to maintain some control. He doesn't quite believe her motives, but she's right all the same.

"I care a great deal for Mrs Crawley…"

"Stating the obvious, Dr Clarkson," she interjects.

"… but I would feel a lot happier if she came to a conclusion about Lord Merton herself."

Lady Grantham considers him for a moment, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"I know what you're trying to do," she says in an almost sing-song voice of victory. "It's noble of you, I must say, but Mrs Crawley will not thank you for stepping back. Fuelled as she may be by a desire to cause me as much inconvenience as possible, I don't believe for a moment that she revels in Lord Merton's attention, but he can be very persuasive. I fear time is running out."

The collar of his shirt is suddenly too tight, making his cheeks flush as he runs a finger round in an attempt to loosen it.

"I still can't help you, I'm afraid. I agree with you, but I can't help you."

"You're making a huge mistake, Dr Clarkson."

She is wearing her sternest expression, lips drawn together tightly in a childish pout.

"Probably," he says with heavy resignation. "But Mrs Crawley is capable of refusing Lord Merton on her own, if that's what she really wants. She does not need my help."

"No," she says with a triumphant smile. "I don't think she needs your help, but perhaps she _wants_ it."

His heartbeat quickens at the memories of Isobel spending all day around the hospital, her sudden need to be busy. Her sudden need to be around _him_?

"She is tired of everyone pushing her in all directions," he says finally, trying to keep his thoughts rational. "I'm her friend and I will not join in with this… this farce."

He expects her expression to darken again, expects her to come up with some sharp-tongued reply, but she doesn't. She smiles calmly, almost sympathetically, at him for several seconds longer than is comfortable.

"We'll see, Dr Clarkson."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Apologies for the delay in updating this - my immune system is entirely to blame. If you have the time, please let me know what you think and thank you so much to those of you who have already done so so far :)**

"You said no?" says Isobel, surprised. "My goodness. How did she take that?"

"Surprisingly well," he replies, gesturing for her to take a seat in his living room.

He has not divulged the full contents of his discussion with Lady Grantham, but she seems sufficiently satisfied with the story.

"That does surprise me," she says.

He hands her a glass of wine, trying to disguise the fact that his hands are trembling. In fact, he's been trembling ever since he blurted out the invitation to come home with him - a move that suggested Lady Grantham's triumph had not been misplaced. With the thoughts that she planted there, he has spent the past week at the hospital unable to keep neither his mind nor his eyes off Isobel.

"She seems to think I'll change my mind," he says, taking a seat next to her. "She's expecting me to turn up."

"And will you?"

He notices the way she's sitting, elegant and upright, feet crossed at the ankles, only inches away from his own. There is something exquisite about her being in his home, her lines and edges soft in the dim light.

"I don't think I will," he replies, swilling the wine around absent-mindedly in his glass. He watches the ripples throw waves up the sides, settling into a gentle roll.

"I'm disappointed," she says quietly, taking a sip from her own glass.

"Why?" he asks. "You know I have no fancy for such things."

She shrugs, choosing her words carefully.

"I would have enjoyed the company."

The flat line of her mouth and the carefully arched eyebrow tell him she's serious. There's a rosey tinge to her cheeks, but he puts that down to the wine, which also seems to be the cause of the uncomfortable heat prickling his own skin.

"You'll be fine without me," he says eventually. "Don't you want to get to know Lord Merton a little?"

"You're the first person to ask me anything about what I want," she says. "But the way you ask suggests you think I should."

"I wouldn't suggest anything to you, Mrs Crawley. I'm an advocate of making your own decisions."

She smiles, taking another long sip of wine until her glass is almost empty. He rises to fetch the rest of the bottle, but she stops him with a light hand to his shoulder.

"I'll get it."

He settles back, watching her move around his living room with the light-footed grace he is so accustomed to seeing in other settings. She is still dressed for work, her clothes plain and a little crumpled, but the scene somehow looks right as she stands there, leaving traces of herself all over his home.

She leans over to pour him more wine, her own hands steady as the liquid flows noisily between bottle and glass.

"You're a bad influence on me," he says, half-admiringly as she pulls away, leaving his glass brimming with burgundy. "I've never had so much alcohol in my life as this past week."

"Oh, don't blame this on me, Dr Clarkson," she says with a wicked grin. "You didn't have to invite me here. And I certainly didn't have anything to do with last weekend."

He doesn't acknowledge this last remark. She sits down again, closer this time. He is suddenly aware of his own knee and how the simple act of tensing or relaxing can make the difference between touching her or not.

"You've never told me your opinion," she says. "On Lord Merton."

"Does it matter?"

She watches him for a long moment, running her finger around the base of her glass.

"That's the thing," she says leaning forward. She has relaxed her own knee so that it is resting lightly against his. "It shouldn't matter, but it does."

For a moment, he is so caught up in the warmth of her proximity that he forgets to respond. They sit there, inches apart, the heaviest subject lying open between them like a fairytale until the weight of the moment stifles it all.

They both seem to return to their senses simultaneously – him with a small cough, her with an adjustment of her skirts. She turns her face away, the movement creating an unbridgeable distance between them.

"I do like him," he says eventually. "But I don't think that's what you're asking."


End file.
